Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Pity swells the tide of love.
One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?
Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?